After leaving Hugo"s genial hospitality, I spent the remainder of Friday with Fraser and Molly at their home in Buckinghamshire, supposedly in research, absorbed by the information on a computer screen, but in truth I was wasting away the hours before an inevitable return to solitude in a once happy environment. As much as I loved Fraser, I found his predilection for any involvement of the Rothschilds with the Cambridge spy ring of the sixties debilitating and hard to bear. Although I held his logic in the highest regard, I could not see the sense in going back so many years in order to harden up "proof" that had been constantly denied.
During the preceding early morning hours that we and a bottle of Jura had spent together, I toyed with the idea of flying off somewhere to wipe away my me
